DR. LEYDEN was born at Denholm, a village on the borders of Teviotdale, in Scotland, in the autumn of 1775. His father was a shepherd farmer, whose humble cottage was the home of piety and content. Young LEYDEN entered the parish school of Kirktown when

nine years of age, and continued his studies

there for about three years, when he was removed to a private academy kept by a Cameronian clergyman who prepared him for the university. At Edinburgh he was a member of literary societies with Lord BROUGHAM, Dr. THOMAS BROWN, Lord JEFFREY, and the Rev. SIDNEY SMITH. After completing his classical course with distinguished reputation, he studied theology, and in 1795 was licensed to preach by the Presbytery of St. Andrews. He did not succeed very well in the pulpit, and soon abandoned it to enter upon a literary life. His first production was an "Historical and Descriptive Account of Discoveries in Africa," published in 1798, and his second, an edition of "The Complaynt of Scotland," an old and scarce tract, to which he added an elaborate preliminary essay and a glossary. In 1799 he became acquainted with SCOTT, to whom he gave valuable aid in the preparation of "The Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border," which appeared in 1801. In 1802, having previously obtained the degree of Doctor of Medicine from the university of St. Andrews, he went to London with a view to embark for India, and while there prepared for the press his "Scenes of Infancy," a poem of considerable merit, in which he combines interesting allusions to local history and superstition with graphic description of the scenery amid which he passed his early years. Of this poem it has been said by a judicious critic, that "in genuine feeling and fancy, as well as in harmony and elegance of composition, it can encounter very few rivals in the English language. It touches so many of the genuine strings of the lyre, with the hand of inspiration; it draws forth so many tender notes, and carries our eyes and our hearts so utterly among those scenes with which the real bard is conversant, that we for a moment

enjoy some portion of the creative powers the poet himself. Nowhere laboured, studied, or affected, he writes in a stream of natural eloquence, whic shows the entire predomi nance of his emotion over his art."

Dr. LEYDEN sailed for Madras in the spring of 1803, and immediately after his arrival entered the service of the East India Company, in which he continued the larger portion of the time until his death. He devoted the intervals of business, when health permitted, to the laborious study of the literature and languages of the eastern nations. He made elegant translations from the Persian, Arabic, and Sanserit, wrote several valuable philologi cal tracts, and grammars of the Malay, Pracrit and other languages.

In 1810 he resigned the office of Commissioner of Requests, and was preferred to that of Assayer of the Mint at Calcutta, with less arduous duties and a more liberal salary. In 1811 his services were required in the expedition against Java, and he sailed from Calcutta under Lord MINTO on the ninth of March in that year. After Batavia fell into the pos session of the Company's forces, he employed his leisure in researches into the literature of the conquered city. He one day entered a large low room in one of the public buildings which was said to contain some Javanese curiosities, and the confined air of which was impregnated with the poisonous quality which has made Batavia the grave of so many Europeans. On leaving it he was suddenly affected with the first symptoms of a mortal fever, of which he died on the twenty-eighth of August, in the thirty-sixth year of his age.

LEYDEN is said to have been pedantic and vain; but he had many admirable social qualities, and those who were most intimately acquainted with his character were his warmest friends. Sir WALTER SCOTT alludes to him in the following lines from the "Lord of the Isles," written soon after his death:His bright and brief carcer is o'er, And mute his tuneful strains; Quench'd is his lamp of varied lore, That loved the light of song to pour ;A distant and a deadly shore Has LEYDE's cold remains!

ODE TO JEHOVAH.

Is high JEHOVAH's praise, my strain
Of triumph shall the chorus lead,
Wнo plunged beneath the rolling main
The horseman with his vaunted steed.
Dread breaker of our servile chains,
By WHOM Our arm in strength remains,
The scented algum forms Tax car!

Our father's GOD! THY name we raise Beyond the bounds of mortal praise, The Chieftain and the Lord of war.

Far in the caverns of the deep

Their chariots sunk to rise no more;
And Pharaoh's mighty warriors sleep
Where the Red Sea's huge monsters roar.
Plunged like a rock amid the wave,
Around their heads the billows lave;
Down, down the yawning gulf they go,
Dash'd by THY high-expanded hand
To pieces on the pointed sand,
That strews the shelving rocks below.

What lambent lightnings round THEE gleam,
THY foes in blackening heaps to strew!
As o'er wide fields of stubble stream
The flames, in undulations blue.
And lo! the waters of the deep
Swell in one enormous heap,
Collected at THY nostrils' breath.

The bosom of the abyss reveal'd,
Wall'd with huge crystal waves congeal'd,
Unfolds the yawning jaws of death.

Swift, steeds of Egypt, speed your course, And swift, ye rapid chariots, roll! Not ocean's bed impedes our force;

Red vengeance soon shall glut our soul:
The sabre keen shall soon embrue
Its glimmering edge in gory dew"-
Impatient cried the exulting foe;-

When, like a ponderous mass of lead
They sink-and sudden, o'er their head
The bursting waves impetuous flow.
But THOU, in whose sublime abode

Resistless might and mercy dwall,
Our voices, high o'er every God,

With grateful hearts Tuy praises swell! Outstretch'd we saw THY red right hand, The earth her solid jaws expand; Adown the gulf alive they sink :— While we, within the incumbent main, Beheld the tumbling floods in vain Storm on our narrow pathway's brink. But, fır as fame's shrill notes resound, With dire dismay the nations hear; Old Edom's sons with laurels crown'd, And Moab's warriors melt with fear. The petrifying tale disarms

The might of Canaan's countless swarms, Appall'd their heroes sink supine;

No mail'd band with thrilling cries The might of Jacob's sons defies, That moves to conquer Palestine.

Nor burning sands our way impede,

Where nature's glowing embers lie ̧ But, led by THEE, we safely tread Beneath the furnace of the skv.

To fields, where fertile clives twine Their branches with the clustering vine Soon shalt Tuot Jacob's armies bring;

To plant them by Tay mighty hand Where the proud towers of Salem stand And ever reign their GoD and King. Far in the deep's unfathom'd caves

Lie strew'd the flower of Mazur's land Save when the surge, that idly raves, Heaves their cold corses on the sand. With courage unappall'd, in vain They rush'd within the channel'd main; Their heads the billows folded o'er: While Thou hast Israel's legions led Through the green ocean's coral bed, To ancient Edom's palmy shore.

(DE TO AN INDIAN GOLD COIN. WRITTEN IN CHERICAL, MALABAR.

SLAVE of the dark and dirty mine!
What vanity has brought thee here?
How can I love to see thee shine

So bright, whom I have bought so dear!—
The tent-ropes flapping lone I hear
For twilight converse, arm in arm;

The jackal's shriek bursts on mine ear When mirth and music wont to charm.

By Chéricál's dark wandering streams,

Where cane-tufts shadow all the wild,
Sweet visions haunt my waking dreams
Of Teviot loved while still a child,
Of castled rocks stupendous piled
By Esk or Eden's classic wave,

Where loves of youth and friendship smiled, Uncursed by thee, vile yellow slave!

Fade, day-dreams sweet, from memory fade !—
The perish'd bliss of youth's first prime,
Tha once so bright on fancy play'd,
Revives no more in after time.
Far from my sacred natal clime,
I haste to an untimely grave;

The daring thoughts that soar'd sublime
Are sunk in ocean's southern wave.

Slave of the mine! thy yellow light
Gleams baleful as the tomb-fire drear.-

A gentle vision comes by night

My lonely widow'd heart to cheer;
Her eyes are dim with many a tear,
That once were guiding stars to mine:
Her fond heart throbs with many a fear

I cannot bear to see thee shine.

For thee, for thee, vile yellow slave,
I left a heart that loved me true!

I cross'd the tedious ocean-wave,

To roam in climes ur kind and new.

STAR of the wide and pathless sea,
Who lovest on mariners to shine,
These votive garments wet, to thee,

We hang within thy holy shrine.
When o'er us flash'd the surging brine,
Amid the waving waters toss'd,

We call'd no other name but thine,
And hoped when other hope was lost.
Ave Maris Stella!

Star of the vast and howling main!
When dark and lone is all the sky,
And mountain waves o'er ocean's plain
Erect their stormy heads on high,
When virgins for their true loves sigh
They raise their weeping eyes to thee;-
The star of ocean heeds their cry,
And saves the foundering bark at sea.
Ave Maris Stella!

Star of the dark and stormy sea!
When wrecking tempests round us rave,
Thy gentle virgin form we see

Bright rising o'er the hoary wave,

The howling storms that seemed to crave Their victims, sink in music sweet;

The surging seas recede to pave

The path beneath thy glistening feet.
Ave Maris Stella!

Star of the desert waters wild,
Who pitying hear'st the seaman's cry!
The God of mercy as a child

On that chaste bosom loves to lie;
While soft the chorus of the sky
Their hymns of tender mercy sing,

And angel voices name on high The mother of the heavenly king.

Ave Maris Stella!

Star of the deep! at that blest name The waves sleep silent round the keel, The tempests wild their fury tame,

That made the deep's foundations reel; The soft celestial accents steal So soothing through the realms of woe, The newly damn'd a respite feel From torture in the depths below.

Ave Maris Stella!

THE MEMORY OF THE PAST.
ALAS, that fancy's pencil still portrays
A fairer scene than ever nature drew!
Alas, that ne'er to reason's placid view
Arise the charms of youth's delusive days!

For still the memory of our tender years,
By contrast vain, impairs our present joys;
Of greener fields we dream and purer skies,

And softer tints than ever nature wears.-Lo! now, to fancy, Teviot's vale appears Adorn'd with flowers of more enchanting hue And fairer bloom than ever Eden knew,

With all the charms that infancy endears. Dear scenes! which grateful memory still employ, Why should you strive to blast the present joy!

A MORNING SCENE.

Lo! in the vales, where wandering rivulets run The fleecy mists shine gilded in the sun, Spread their loose folds, till now the lagging gale, Unfurls no more its lightly skimming sail; But through the hoary flakes, that fall like snow, Gleams in ethereal hue the watery bow. 'Tis ancient silence, robed in thistle down, Whose snowy locks its fairy circles crown; His vesture moves not, as he hovers lone, While curling fogs compose his airy throne; Serenely still, self-pois'd, he rests on high, And soothes each infant breeze that fans the sky. The mists ascend;-the mountains scarce are free Like islands floating in a billowy sea; While on their chalky summits glimmering dance The sun's last rays across the gray expanse: As sink the hills in waves that roun them grow The hoary surges scale the cliff's tall brow; The fleecy billows o'er its head are hurl'd, As ocean once embraced the prostrate world.

CHANGES OF HOME.

As every prospect opens on my view, I seem'd to live departed years anew; When in these wilds a jocund, sportive child, Each flower self-sown my heedless hours beguiled; The wabret leaf, that by the pathway grew, The wild-briar rose, of pale and blushful hue, The thistle's rolling wheel, of silken down, The blue-bell, or the daisy's pearly crown The gaudy butterfly, in wanton round. That, like a living pea-flower, skimm'd the ground! Again I view each rude romantic glade, Where once with tiny steps my childhood stray'd To watch the foam-bell of the bubbling brook, Or mark the motions of the clamorous rook, Who saw her nest, close thatch'd with ceaseless toil, At summer eve become the woodman's spoil!

Green down ascending drink the moorish rills,
And yellow corn-fields crown the heathless hills,
Where to the breeze the shrill brown linnet sings,
And prunes with frequent bill his russet wings.
High and more high the shepherds drive their flocks,
And climb with timid step the hoary rocks;
From cliff to cliff the ruffling breezes sigh,
Where idly on the sun-beat steeps they lie,
And wonder, that the vale no more displays
The pastoral scenes that pleased their early days.
No more the cottage roof, fern-thatch'd and gray,
Invites the weary traveller from the way,
To rest, and taste the peasant's simple cheer,
Repaid by news and tales he loved to hear;
The clay-built wall, with woodbine twisted o'er,
The house-leek clustering green above the door,
Wale through the sheltering elms, that round
them grew,

The winding smoke arose in columns blue;-
These all have fled; and from their hamlets brown
The swains have gone, to sicken in the town,
To pine in crowded streets, or ply the loom;
For splendid halls deny the cottage room.
Yet on the neighbouring heights they oft convene,
With fond regret to view each former scene,
The level meads, where infants wont to play
Aroun 1 their mothers, as they piled the hay,
The hawthorn hedge-row, and the hanging wood,
Beneath whose boughs their humble cottage stood.
Gone are the peasants from the humble shed,
And with them too the humble virtues fled.
No more the farmer, on these fertile plains,
Is held the father of the meaner swains,
Partakes, as he directs, the reaper's toil,
Or with his shining share divides the soil.
Or in his hall, when winter nights are long,
Joins in the burden of the damsel's song,
Repeats the tales of old heroic times,
While Bruce and Wallace consecrate the rhymes.
These all are fled--and, in the firmer's place,
Of prouder look, advance a dubious race,
That ape the pride of rank with awkward state
The vice, but not the polish of the great,
Flaunt, like the poppy mid the ripening grain,
A nauseous weed, that poisons all the plain.
The peasant, once a friend a friend no more,
'ringes, a save, before the master's door:

Or else, too proud where once he loved to fawn,
For distant climes deserts his native lawn,
And fondly hopes beyond the western main
To find the virtues here beloved in vain.

TEVIOTD ALE.

LAND of my fathers!-though no mangrove her O'er thy blue streams her flexile branches 1:ar, Nor scaly palm her finger'd scions shoot, Nor luscious guava wave her vellow fruit, Nor golden apples glimmer from the treeLand of dark heaths and mountains! thou art free. Untainted yet, thy stream, fair Teviot! runs, With unatoned blood of Gambia's sons: No drooping slave, with spirit bow'd to toil, Grows, like the weed, self-rooted to the soil, Nor cringing vassal on these pansied meads Is bought and barter'd, as the flock he feeds. Free, as the lark that carols o'er his head, At dawn the healthy ploughman leaves his bcd, Binds to the yoke his sturdy steers with care, And whistling loud directs the mining share; Free, as his lord, the peasant treads the plain, And heaps his harvest on the groaning wain: Proud of his laws, tenacious of his right, And vain of Scotia's old unconquer'd might

Dear native valleys! may ye long retain
The charter'd freedom of the mountain swain!
Long mid your sounding glaðles in union sweet
May rural innocence and beauty meet!
And still be duly heard at twilight calm
From every cot the peasant's chanted psalm!
Then, Jedworth! though thy ancient choirs shail
fade,

And time lay hare each lofty colonnade,
From the damp roof the massy sculptures die,
And in their vaults thy rifted arches lie,
Still in these vales shall angel harps prolong
By Jed's pure stream a sweeter even song,
Than long processions once, with mystic zeal,
Pour'd to the harp and solemn organ's peal.

SERENITY OF CHILDHOOD.

In the sweet morn of life, when health and joy
Laugh in the eye, and o'er each sunny plain
A mild celestial softness seems to reign,
Ah! who could dream what woes the heart annoy1
No saddening sighs disturb the vernal gale

Which fans the wild-wood music on the ear;
Unbathed the sparkling eye with pity's tear,
Save listening to the aged soldier's tale,
The heart's slow grief, which wastes the child of wo
And lovely injured woman's cruel wrong,
We hear not in t .e sky-lark's morning song,
We hear not in the gales that o'er us blow,
Visions devoid of wo which childhood drew.
How oft shall my sad heart your scothing scene
renew!

THE author of "Elia" was the son of JOHN LAMB, a scrivener, and was born in the Inner Temple, London, on the eighteenth of February, 1775. In 1782 he was admitted to the school of Christ's Hospital, where he remained until he had entered into his fifteenth year, from which time he was employed in the South-Sea House, under his elder brother, until 1792, when he obtained an appointment in the office of the accountant-general of the East India Company. He was in the Indiahouse thirty-five years, rarely absent from his post a single day, and fulfilling his duties with most exact fidelity. He lived meantime with his 66 gentle sister Mary"-neither of them being ever married-and had at all times a circle of ardent friends, embracing some of the most eminent persons of the country, as COLERIDGE, who was his schoolfellow, Wordsworth, Hazlitt, SouthEY, and Sergeant TALFOURD, his biographer. He continued nearly all his life in London, regarding it, with a sort of Chinese exclusiveness, as the only scene in which existence could be enjoyed, until within two or three years of his death, when he wrote to a friend that the town, with all his native hankering after it, was not what it had been in his earlier life. "The streets, the shops," he says, "are left, but all old friends are gone: I was frightfully convinced of this as I passed houses and places, empty caskets now. I have ceased to care almost about anybody; the bodies I cared for are in graves, or dispersed; my old thums that lived so long and flourished so steadily, are crumbled away."

LAMB's favourite reading was chiefly in the early English authors, and some of its results appeared in his "Selections from Dramatists contemporary with Shakspeare," and in his essays on Shakspeare's Tragedies, on the works of George Wither, &c. His first appearance as an author, however, was at the age of twenty-two, when he pub. lished in connection with COLERIDGE and CHARLES LLOYD, a volume of verses, not particularly deserving of admiration, and in the

next year, "Rosamund Gray," a story afer the manner of MACKENZIE, which was more popular. In 180 appeared "John Woɔdvil, a Tragedy;" in 1808 "The Adventures of Ulysses," and at intervals came out his "Essays of Elia," the most remarkable of his compositions, which established his reputation on good and lasting grounds.

Besides the works already mentioned, LAMB wrote a farce entitled "Mr. H," which was acted at Drury Lane. Though ELLISTON personated the hero, it was for some reason unsuccessful. In America, however, it afterward had a great run, and was performed by Mr. Wood, in Philadelphia, as many nights, perhaps, as any piece of its nature ever brought out by that excellent comedian.

LAMB's poems, excepting the tragedy which we have named, are few and brief, and of | less merit than his prose writings. "John Woodvil," however, contains passages which | would not have done dishonour to the great dramatists of SHAKSPEARE'S golden age; and "The Farewell to Tobacco," in these pages, is such a piece of verse as one might imagine "Elia" would write. His letters and his essays belong to that small and slowly increasing body of works constituting the standard literature of the English language. Their bonhomie, exquisite humour, and tenderness, will make them as great favourites with successive generations of readers, as the living CHARLES LAMB was with his personal friends.

Speaking of the "Farewell to Tobacco," reminds us of the most melancholy subject in LAMB's history-his intemperance. So far as we know, it was his only frailty, and it was one which he shared with COLERIDGE, the most intimate, as well as the greatest of his friends. Such infirmities of genius warn us of the necessity of preserving every guard to virtue, and teach the duty of charity and forbearance.

Mr. LAMB died suddenly at Edmonton, on the 27th of December, 1834, in the sixtieth year of his age.